Somebody (I forget who) said the secret to a happy marriage is a bad memory. If that’s the case, I think Kevin and I are home free.

Yesterday my beloved inadvertently revealed he had forgotten that September 1 is our anniversary; he was thinking it was on Labor Day.  But I remember the date because the exact time of our declaration was midnight, and for years we debated whether we should celebrate on September 1 or August 31.  But I forget who argued for which day.

Then this morning I twitted about how Kevin and I confessed our (at the time) true like a mere fourteen years ago, only to discover a few minutes later that, at least according to last year’s woo-pitching, I am a year behind. Chagrin, i haz it.

Obviously, I no longer consider myself a reliable source. Since neither of us keep diaries and the Rib wasn’t even a glimmer in my eye, my only point of reference for the year of our union is other people.  I’ll have to ask my sister how old her son Ray is, because he was born in the same year. I am pretty sure.